


The Duties of Men

by framboise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Eventual Romance, F/M, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Death, Older Man/Younger Woman, Rare Pairings, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-04 09:40:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14017473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/framboise/pseuds/framboise
Summary: The soulmate mark appears on his wrist as he journeys to Dragonstone. The very name of the babe his brother has ordered him to kill.Thus his brother, and the gods, have set before him a terrible choice. To whom is his duty owed? The gods, or his king?[Or, three times Stannis loses his soulmate, and one time Daenerys saves hers]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> if you want visuals for this fic, I made a graphic [here](https://framboise-fics.tumblr.com/post/172214783312/the-soulmate-mark-appears-on-his-wrist-as-he)

  

The soulmate mark appears on his wrist as he journeys to Dragonstone.

The very name of the babe his brother has ordered him to kill.

Thus his brother, and the gods, have set before him a terrible choice. Kill the child on the orders of his king; or defy his king and save his soulmate.

After a childhood sat on his mother's knee listening to her speak of soulmates; after idolizing his parents' own soulmate marriage; after growing up a boy of duty; after nursing and training a goshawk named Proudwing only to bitterly abandon it on the advice of his uncle; after his brother usurps the throne for himself and not for Aerys's descendants once the mad king has been slain, and then orders Stannis to kill _children_ ; the choice is easy.

But the gods never let him make that choice.

For the babe dies in the birthing bed before he can arrive on the island; her mother dead of her own sickness; and her brother jumped, or thrown, from the walls of Dragonstone onto the rocks.

When he makes land and learns what has happened, his men crowing that the king's will has been done, that they will all be rewarded for the deaths of the last Targaryens; Stannis stalks deep into the keep, deep through the ragged walls, to a place where the floor starts to heat from below.

And there, alone, he falls to the ground and weeps. He keens and bends his head to the burning rock. And then he rips off his vambrace and touches his wrist where his soulmate mark was for but two days, and where a raised scar now sits. A scar that will appear as only a wordless scratch now to anyone else who looks upon it, but to him will forever be a marker of his shame.

He was not quick enough to save her. It is his fault his soulmate is dead.

  


	2. Chapter 2

 

The soulmate mark appears on his wrist as he journeys to Dragonstone.

The very name of the babe his brother has ordered him to kill.

Thus his brother, and the gods, have set before him a terrible choice. Kill the child on the orders of his king; or defy his king and save his soulmate.

After a childhood sat on his mother's knee listening to her speak of soulmates; after idolizing his parents' own soulmate marriage; after growing up a boy of duty; after nursing and training a goshawk named Proudwing only to bitterly abandon it on the advice of his uncle; after his brother usurps the throne for himself and not for Aerys's descendants once the mad king has been slain, and then orders Stannis to kill _children_ ; the choice is easy.

But the gods never let him make that choice.

For the babe dies when a wave breaches her ship as she and her brother escape from Dragonstone only a few days before Stannis arrives, the last of the Targaryens sinking to the bottom of the bay, never to be seen again.

When he makes land and learns what has happened, his men crowing that the king's will has been done and that they will all be rewarded handsomely; Stannis takes a boat out into the bay and orders the sole survivor of the shipwreck, a young servant boy, to tell him exactly where her boat floundered.

And when he reaches that spot, Stannis leans over the side of the boat and weeps silently into the waves, the tears on his cheeks indistinguishable from the spray of the water against the hull. He rips off his vambrace and touches his wrist where his soulmate mark was for but a few days and where a raised scar now sits, a silvery mark under the bright sunlight that dapples off the water. A permanent emblem of his shame.

He was not quick enough to save her. It is his fault his soulmate is dead.

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

The soulmate mark appears on his wrist as he journeys to Dragonstone.

The very name of the babe his brother has ordered him to kill.

Thus his brother, and the gods, have set before him a terrible choice. Kill the child on the orders of his king; or defy his king and save his soulmate.

After a childhood sat on his mother's knee listening to her speak of soulmates; after idolizing his parents' own soulmate marriage; after growing up a boy of duty; after nursing and training a goshawk named Proudwing only to bitterly abandon it on the advice of his uncle; after his brother usurps the throne for himself and not for Aerys's descendants once the mad king has been slain, and then orders Stannis to kill _children_ ; the choice is easy.

Rhaella is dead of a birthing fever when he arrives but her son and heir still lives, and so does Daenerys. The babe is so little in Stannis's arms but she is strong, she wails and flails her limbs, blinks up at him with her purple eyes. She has his name on her wrist and the black of it looks stark and almost painful on her pale skin.

Stannis cannot let Daenerys remain on Dragonstone, nor can he take her to Storm's End or King's Landing, or anywhere else in Westeros. He hopes that Robert's fury at the Targaryens might lessen as the years pass, that Robert might see the soulmate marks for what they are - the gods urging reconciliation between two houses and seven kingdoms rent apart. And if the king does not soften, when Daenerys comes of age, Stannis will leave Westeros and make a home for the both of them in Essos.

Until that time, she is vulnerable and unsafe, and so the deaths of the last Targaryens are faked and two small empty graves dug. He gives Daenerys and her brother to the care of Ser Willem Darry and several other loyal retainers who had stood with their swords at the door to the nursery prepared to lay down their lives for the prince and princess. He also gives them as much gold as they can carry, shows them a code they can use to contact him in ravens, and swears that he will make a visit to Daenerys four years hence.

They flee by night, and Stannis stands on the beach at Dragonstone and watches the shadow of the boat leave with his soulmate upon it. He clenches his fists, grits his jaw on childish tears that threaten to fall. The gods have given this babe to him as a soulmate, so the gods must trust in him to wait, must want him to be older and wiser for her, to become worthy of a Targaryen princess.

 

Four years later and he is married, for there were no more excuses he could make to the king, but he has no children yet of his own. The weeks and months are long, the years—He thinks of Daenerys each morning, allowing himself a few moments when he is alone looking out across the sea where she sailed, picturing scenes from her life in Braavos that Ser Willem relates in his sparse letters, and then he tucks all thoughts of her away and returns to the gloomy halls of Dragonstone, to the harshness of life here and to days free of the consolation of his soulmate.

When it is finally time to make his voyage to Essos, he has had years to conjure up an excuse for why he must travel there in such a small boat, with only Ser Davos to advise him, and a handful of sailors. He is looking forward to seeing little Daenerys. As he stands near the bow of the boat that speeds across the waves on steady winds, his heart is aching like it is being pulled towards Braavos where she waits. His arm flexes on the railing, vambrace hiding his mark as usual, and the spray of the water dazzles eyes that eagerly search the horizon for the Titan of Braavos.

But as the boat makes anchor in the harbour, he sees Ser Willem waiting for him, and by the man's face, Stannis knows.

Daenerys died of a fever but a few days hence. She was only a child and children are fragile.

"She was happy," Ser Willem says as Stannis enters the little house where she had lived out her too-few years, "she laughed and skipped about the house and every person who met her loved her." The old man's eyes glimmer with unshed tears, "She knew her letters and she used to run her finger along her wrist and read your name. We spoke of you to her, she thought of you and was looking forward to your visit–"

" _I cannot_ —forgive me-" Stannis barrels out of the room, weeping like a child himself.

"You are sure it was a fever?" he asks later, once he has composed himself.

"Other children of the city have died, her brother passed in the same fashion. I cannot swear to the gods that it was certainly a fever, but I have seen no poison like this before," Ser Willem says carefully. He pauses, shakes his head. "We cared for her the best we could, followed everything the best medicine men advised."

Stannis visits her rooms, picks up the colourful playing-blocks in his hands, a scrap of paper where she has drawn a clumsy flower, and he weeps again.

Was she poisoned for her name, her house, or was it just a fever? Were the medicine men as skilled as Westerosi maesters?

It matters not.

He was not quick enough to save her, it is his fault his soulmate is dead.

 


	4. Chapter 4

  

The soulmate mark appears on his wrist as he journeys to Dragonstone.

The very name of the babe his brother has ordered him to kill.

Thus his brother, and the gods, have set before him a terrible choice. Kill the child on the orders of his king; or defy his king and save his soulmate.

After a childhood sat on his mother's knee listening to her speak of soulmates; after idolizing his parents' own soulmate marriage; after growing up a boy of duty; after nursing and training a goshawk named Proudwing only to bitterly abandon it on the advice of his uncle; after his brother usurps the throne for himself and not for Aerys's descendants once the mad king has been slain, and then orders Stannis to kill _children_ ; the choice is easy.

A Targaryen child with a Baratheon soulmate. This story cannot have a happy ending, he cannot keep her safe.

And so she must not be a Targaryen child. And she must not have a Baratheon for a soulmate.

Her brother is dead by the time he arrives, an accident in a scuffle amongst the garrison at Dragonstone who wished to ransom the little prince, but Daenerys is still being sheltered by Ser Willem Darry and several other loyal retainers. In the confusion, Stannis spirits her away deep into the keep and then has two graves dug, leaving one empty.

He informs his men that the king has asked him to sail to Sunspear, to broker peace with the Martells and, leaving most of the Baratheon forces at Dragonstone, he takes a small boat south, hiding Daenerys and a wet nurse in his private cabin.

Arriving in Sunspear itself is tense. The docks bristle with Martell soldiers, their spears quivering with rage, but eventually the man Stannis has journeyed to find agrees to come on board and speak with him.

Prince Oberyn is fury incarnate, his eyes like two burning coals, his fists clenched so tightly Stannis expects to see blood dripping from between his fingers.

But when Stannis brings him to his cabin, stepping aside so that the prince can see the little Targaryen princess, wriggling in the arms of her wet nurse; his body softens, his eyes grow wet with tears.

He marvels at the princess, touching her white hair, and then he spies the name on her wrist and his gaze fixes on Stannis.

"I cannot keep her safe," Stannis says, bitterly swallowing his pride. "I must ask of you a grave task, Prince Oberyn. Raise Daenerys as a Dayne, keep her from harm. Give her the life that I cannot."

"I will do this, I swear it," Oberyn says. "For the memory of my sister, and because she is my kin. But you have more to ask of me," he prompts. He is shrewd and wary, exactly the kind of protector that Daenerys needs.

Stannis nods and rubs his mouth with a shaking hand. "Do you have any experience of soulmate repudiation?"

Oberyn's jaw ticks.

"She cannot be linked to me, you understand, don't you?" Stannis says. "She must be free of myself and my house and the crown's watchful eyes."

"You know the cost of this?"

Stannis nods. "I would pay any price to keep her safe."

Oberyn studies him. "I know someone skilled with magic who can help."

Oberyn takes Stannis and Daenerys out to the desert, to a ruined holdfast named Shandystone, where the sands drift thick across the faded marble floors, columns lie like they have been knocked over by some vengeful giant, and statues of gods and goddesses buffed clean of their features watch the ritual Stannis performs.

There is fire, and grisly potions, and words that hurt his tongue.

And when he is done, the mark on Daenerys's wrist has faded to a slight silver scratch, indistinguishable from a mark made by a stumbling toddler learning to walk.

But the mark on Stannis's wrist remains, as he knew it would, and it burns with a fiery pain that will be with him however long he lives. This is the price he pays to make his soulmate free of him, to give her a chance at a long and peaceful life.

They journey back to Sunspear where Stannis has a private audience with Prince Doran who demands the bones of Elia Martell's killer and whose steely grief cuts him deep. There is no alliance to be made between the two houses, only an agreement that Dorne will not raise an army against the crown. Not yet, at least, Stannis thinks, wondering if Dorne is truly the safest place for Daenerys. But where else could a babe with silver hair and violet eyes be hidden? And who else still held absolute loyalty to the Targaryens?

Stannis makes his goodbyes to his soulmate in a pretty courtyard bordered by orange trees and climbing flowers, the sparkle of a fountain at its centre. He holds the babe in his arms and stares at her as she slumbers peacefully.

It is his duty to make his soulmate happy, to keep her safe, and he knows that what he has done, what the simmering burn on his wrist that he will hide forever beneath vambraces and tunics embodies, is the right thing. And yet, a selfish part of him wishes that this would not be their last meeting, that he would know what she was like as she grew older, that he might have a chance to love her when they were both adults.

It is not to be. This is the lot the gods have given him, trusting in him to do what he must.

And if he cries the first night alone in his cabin, returning to the barren loneliness of Dragonstone, then that is only because of the unfamiliar pain of his smouldering soulmate mark, and nothing that a small dose of milk of the poppy will not soothe.

 

His life continues as it would have if he never had a soulmate. Robert disappoints him again, making him Lord of Dragonstone; Stannis makes an unhappy marriage with Selyse, who bears him only one daughter – and if his fierceness in searching for a cure for her greyscale brings to mind his fervor at trying to save another vulnerable babe, then he will not allow himself to recognise that - and he is called to serve on the small council in the lion's pit of King's Landing, watching as his brother disappoints the entirety of the seven kingdoms.

He thinks of Daenerys now and then – riding sand steeds in the deserts around Starfall, laughing and playing with other children, learning her lessons, dreaming of heroes from songs. He hears very little of the Daynes at court, only endless repeated gossip about the deaths of Ser Arthur and his tragic sister. No one speaks of a silver-haired noble girl and he is glad for it.

But the gods are not finished with him yet, and when his brother dies and it is revealed that he has no true heirs, Stannis dutifully prepares to take Robert's place on the Iron Throne, calling his banners and raising an army.

Perhaps it is because he knows that he is not the true heir to the throne, that the true heir lives in Dorne unawares; perhaps it is because he has no wish to rule without her beside him; or perhaps it is a result of the burning pain that throbs through his arm and makes it hard to centre his thoughts; but all his military strategy deserts him and his army is vanquished at Blackwater Bay and he is captured and dragged to be judged by another mad king, a boy king made of incest.

Joffrey finds it amusing to exile Stannis to the Wall and have him take the black, after delighting in telling him that his wife has thrown herself from the walls of Dragonstone. And so, dutifully, Stannis travels north and joins a company of the blackest kinds of men - murderers, rapists, thieves – and makes new vows to keep the world of men safe, knowing that Daenerys is part of the world he fights to protect. By some strange twist of fate, or more likely by the manoeuvring of Dornish interests, Shireen is to be fostered in Sunspear, and the first thing he does when he arrives at Castle Black is to send a raven of thanks to the Martells, marvelling at their kindness even after his foolish attempt to take the throne.

And when the might of the army of the dead is revealed, when the true threat to Westeros becomes clear, Stannis is happy that his soulmate dwells in the southronmost part of it, that his daughter does too, that they have the Red Viper and his kin to protect them.

But then, as he and the meagre forces of the Night's Watch battle against the dead, their days and nights full of fire and terror and cold that freezes men where they stand; rumours come creeping north, rumours of dragons in Dorne, of dragons and a silver-haired woman who rides them.

He does not know what to think of these tales at first but when they are confirmed by maesters and others, he feels a maelstrom of emotions - anger, that she has not been left alone by the gods to have a quiet life; pride, that she rides _dragons_ , that she is by all accounts both fearsome and a champion of those in need; and a bone-weary relief that she has no need of his paltry protection any longer, for who could harm her now, she who rides dragons?

And when the bastard son of Ned Stark falls in battle beyond the Wall and walks out of his own funeral pyre, when Stannis realises that this young man is Rhaegar's son, he is gladdened to know that Daenerys is not alone, that Jon will likely survive this war even if many others will not, that the line of the Targaryens will continue whoever Daenerys believes herself to be.

It is the other rumours that are more difficult for him to hear, to believe, those that say that Daenerys is flying north to join their fight against the dead, that she will arrive any day with her dragons and their flames.

The Night's Watch is close to collapse, and Stannis has almost lost his life twice over when the scouts say that the flying beasts have been seen in the distance. Stannis is in the thick of the fighting beyond the Wall, the surging forces of the dead threatening to overwhelm the small group he fights alongside.

If he could but see her riding one of her dragons, her hair white as ice, wondrous and fierce as she is, he would be happy to die, he thinks, slashing his sword with one hand, waving a flaming torch with the other, as the hungry dead lunge at him from all sides.

When she does appear, when he sees her so close, and yet so far, high above him, he feels tears unbidden roll down his cheeks, a roaring of such pride in his chest.

And when her dragons burn the White Walkers and their armies, when the beasts raze the battlefield and leave the straggling Night's Watch unharmed and gaping up at the woman who has saved Westeros, Stannis falls to his knees, thankful beyond words, a wound on his side sluggishly oozing blood onto the snows.

She lands her dragon close to them, slides effortlessly from its back, searching the crowd for someone. She is looking for her nephew, Stannis thinks, as he drinks in how she looks in her white furs, her hair in ropes of braids, her delicate form belying her strength and bravery. She is beautiful and he is honoured to see her, the mark on his wrist throbbing in sympathy with his heart.

"Where is Stannis Baratheon?" she calls suddenly.

His breath catches. Is this a feverish daydream from the blood he has lost?

"Stannis," she calls again, as the men around him draw back to reveal him kneeling. " _Stannis_ ," she cries and runs to him.

"My lady," he says, his voice shaking as he clambers to stand.

She is shorter than him by a head, her eyes the violet of his dreams, and she is staring at him with a depth of emotion he cannot fathom.

"Show me your wrist," she demands, with a force surprising from one so slight.

"My princess, Daenerys–" he croaks.

She takes his arm before he can lift it and fumbles with the vambrace as he stares at her like a useless mute, and when she bares his skin to the bright northern light, she gasps and begins to cry.

"Please don't cry-" he begins but then she touches the soulmate mark, placing her palm over her name writ in burning black, and he is the one to choke a breath at the instant cessation of his years-long pain.

She tugs the furs covering her wrist back and shows him his name, the name he burned away so long ago.

"I don't understand," he says, and then he sways and she spots the small pool of blood at his feet.

"Stannis!" she calls. "Help me get him back to the keep," she demands of the men around them who have been watching the scene unfold, quiet with shock.

He is bustled back to Castle Black, Daenerys at his shoulder, her small hand in his large one, her dragons wheeling in the sky above them.

 

"How did your mark return?" he asks, when he next has his wits about him, sitting beside her on a bench near the fire in the Lord Commander's room.

She is watching him with a fondness he finds uncomfortable, even as he fears his own face bears a similar awestruck look as he gazes upon her in turn.

"When I walked out of the fire with my dragons hatched, your name had been returned to me," she says.

"What fire?" he frowns. "Why were you anywhere near such a fire? What were you thinking entering it in the first place?"

She laughs and it makes him frown further. "I have been asking others about you since your name was returned to me. They say that you are sullen, my lord, that a frown is ever-fixed on your brow." She takes his hand and squeezes it, the softness of her skin startling. "They say that you are stubborn, that you have a righteous fury that burns inside of you, just as I am, just as I do." Her eyes gleam wet. "They say that you are dutiful, too dutiful. That you would throw away your chance at joy for the sake of others."

"Who says this?" he asks, throat thick.

"Oberyn."

"Prince Oberyn was supposed to keep you hidden."

She laughs again. "He did his best. But have I mentioned that I am stubborn?"

"You have, my lady."

"Call me Daenerys. We are soulmates, we should use each other's names." She looks shy and a little uncertain.

"Of course, Daenerys," he says haltingly, and then he takes her slim wrist in his hand and looks down, running his rough fingertip across his name. "When I saw you arrive on your dragon, I was overcome, I never thought I would see you again, but to see you thus-" he looks up. "I fear that I am unworthy of you still, that the gods were at fault for tying us together."

"I do not think so. You are brave, dutiful, strong." Her cheeks flush curiously. "I like your eyes," she says, "and how tall you are."

He feels tongue-tied and stupid, and curses himself inwardly. "I have never been fond of stating that which is already apparent," he says, "but you must know that you are very beautiful."

"Thank you, Stannis," she says, and then leans forward and kisses his cheek. "Your daughter warned me that you did not have much patience for courtesy but she must have been mistaken."

"Shireen?"

"We have spent time together these last few weeks before I flew north. She is looking forward to seeing you soon."

He blows out a breath. "My lady, I swore a vow, I am a brother of the Night's Watch-"

"You know as well I do that those with a soulmate mark cannot serve in the Night's Watch. I am shocked an honest man such as yourself would make such a lie in the first place."

He huffs. He has smiled more in her presence than he has done in years, and he feels almost lightheaded from the lack of pain from his soulmate mark.

"A man's greatest duty should be to his soulmate, should it not?" she asks, frowning herself.

"Yes, Daenerys," he says, and takes her face in his hands so that she smiles up at him. "Yes, I have always believed this to be so," he says and kisses her, and she wraps her arms around his neck, and he feels as if some great burden he has been carrying has been set down at last, that peace has been returned to him.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> please comment, I'd love to know what people think!
> 
> my tumblr: [framboise-fics](http://framboise-fics.tumblr.com)
> 
> and there's a rebloggable photoset for this fic [here](https://framboise-fics.tumblr.com/post/172214783312/the-soulmate-mark-appears-on-his-wrist-as-he)
> 
> I don't have any plans to write a sequel to this story, but I might write more Stannis/Daenerys in the future.


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